


Masks

by GreyLiliy



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Obsession, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:43:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyLiliy/pseuds/GreyLiliy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Today, Tarn would see Megatron. He had to hold it together. Tarn must hold it together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masks

**Author's Note:**

> Let’s start this new year off right. Here’s a little Tarn/Megatron to shake things up. *puts on cool glasses* Wanted to explore a little of my own thoughts on Megatron, and how they’d contrast with a character like Tarn.

Tarn clicked off his mask and placed it on the side table next to his berth. 

One of the biggest mistakes that the Autobots made daily, was to assume that the Decepticons were a faction like their own: A group of individuals fighting for a single cause.

They were fools. 

Tarn rubbed the sides of his cheeks, and stretched out his mouth. He licked the side of his lip, his tongue catching on a deeper scar that cut through the side. Tarn rubbed it with his thumb, before resting both of his hands on the table. He leaned over his beloved mask. The mask that his kin feared, and that bore his owner’s symbol.

The Decepticons were nothing more than an extension of Megatron. Tarn wasn’t sure how else he could put it. Megatron and The Decepticons were synonymous. They were his will, his arms, his reach, and his to do with as he pleased. The Decepticons existed to be one with Megatron. Should they forget, Tarn would remind them—or destroy them.

It wasn’t all that difficult to comprehend.

Tarn brushed his fingers against the Decepticon Brand that made up his working mask. He leaned down and kissed the top, just over the scar that cut through the optic-slit. He would return for it later, but for now, Tarn needed to slip into something more appropriate.

He was going to see Megatron today.

One of the mistakes The Decepticons made, was assuming that Megatron appreciated excess praise. Tarn stretched out his arms, and rolled his shoulders as he walked across his room on the Peaceful Tyranny. Megatron was good about keeping his temper in the face of it, but the truth was: He despised Zealots.

Tarn opened a small case, and stared down at the simple face plate and visor that rested snugly deep within. Relics from before he had taken the name “Tarn” and started the Decepticon Justice Division. Simple things from a simple life. Tarn’s crooked smile stretched as he plucked them out of the case.

Megatron preferred his followers to have their own minds. They were all his belongings, but that didn’t mean he wanted them sucking up to him every second of the day. Fools like Lugnut who did nothing but sing his praises all day annoyed him. Irritated him. 

Why else would he keep the company of creatures such as Starscream in his immediate company? He kept the ones who insulted him the most openly around him. Megatron appreciated it, for reasons beyond Tarn. And to the truly loyal who stood by him, they learned quickly not to lavish him in praises at every moment. Even Soundwave and Shockwave knew how to hold their tongues.

Tarn did not.

Tarn too, like the fool Lugnut, adored speaking of the wonder that was their Lord and Master, Megatron. Tarn’s gift was his voice and his words. He couldn’t help it. What better subject to use such talents on, than the endless praise of his Lord and Master? It was Tarn’s greatest joy to speak of his brilliance, of his leadership, and his poetry. 

One of the perks of Tarn’s job—while also being the most frustrating—was that Tarn was always far, far away from Lord Megatron. Therefore, most who got to hear Tarn’s praises, didn’t live long enough to repeat it. Tarn could praise his Lord and Master to his spark’s content, and Megatron never had to suffer through it.

It was the perfect compromise.

But today was different. They would be in the same room soon, and Tarn had to keep it under control. He clipped the bottom of his face-plate over his mouth, and snapped in the visor just above it over his optics. The red shone brightly, glaring through the crimson glass. He licked his lips behind the face-plate and turned around to double check that all was in order in his hab-suite. 

Scars covered, and with a new will to reign in his zealous nature, Tarn was ready. He would keep it under control. He was going to see Megatron.  He had everything under control.

Tarn could do nothing less.

* * *

“Have we approached orbit, yet?” Tarn asked, standing behind Kaon. He crossed his arms, breathing in deeply. The nerves and the tingles of what was soon to come set in every piece of him. “Surely we’re there by now.”

“Close, sir,” Kaon answered.

Tarn nodded, and pat his shoulder. “Good.”

Tesarus, Helex, and Vos all spared a single glance in his direction, but knew better than to linger. The visor and mouth plate weren’t so out of place that they’d comment on it. Tarn released the air through his vents, heavily and long. The world was a shade of red, and it irritated his senses, but it would have to do.

“Approaching the dock,” Helex said, a few moments later. “Taking a shuttle down, sir?”

“Yes,” Tarn said. “I’ll be back in the morning. Keep the ship running.”

“Sir,” they replied.

The shuttle ride was short, and Tarn touched down deep in the back of Decepticon lines. Far from the front, the fighting was reduced to the scuffles and scrapes of in-fighting. Even without his mask, his massive size and recognizable alt-mode had the lowest soldiers scrambling out of his way as he approached the front tent.

Megatron was on the other side.

Tarn shivered, and flicked his optics off. He had to keep it together. He would not annoy his leader. The first words out of his mouth would not be praise and flattery. Tarn flicked his optics on, steeling every inch of his form. He was the leader of the Decepticon Justice Division. He was Tarn. Megatron was his Lord and Master. He would do this.

He had to do this.

Tarn flicked the curtain aside, ducking down as he did so to clear the top of the entranceway. He spotted Soundwave first, reading a report. The mech didn’t look up, but Tarn knew he was watching. No one had better optics and audial input than Soundwave. Across the room, Starscream was pouting. 

Tarn held in the urge to vent, because there in the center: Megatron.

“Stop hiding in the doorway,” Megatron said, not glancing up from the report in his hand. “You had permission to enter when I sent the hail.”

“Sir,” Tarn said, ignoring the jolt of delight his spark felt hearing his Lord speak. “Of course.”

Megatron continued to read as Tarn took his place before his Master. Resisting his instincts took all of Tarn’s self control, but he managed. There would be no bowing. No kneeling. No groveling. Tarn’s will was iron. He stood straight. He looked down. Tarn was power. He would be everything Megatron expected of his own. 

Tarn, however, found it fit to show respect, and stood at attention.

“Speak,” Megatron said. His optics stayed on the tablet in his hand, but his tone said he was listening.

“It would be my pleasure,” Tarn said, ever polite. If it was also the pleasure of his spark, beating ever faster in his chest because he was sharing the air with Lord Megatron, that was another story. “Business is proceeding as usual. The List of traitors is being dealt with as swiftly as possible, though I regret to report that Overlord has yet again disappeared into the shadows from which he crawled.”

“I suggest you keep looking,” Megatron said. He flicked off the tablet, and set on his thigh. “He is your top priority.”

“Yes, sir,” Tarn said. “He will not continue to escape us for long.”

“No one ever does,” Megatron said, stopping Tarn’s spark dead in his chest. That had been a compliment. Tarn had received a compliment and—no. Tarn was in control. Megatron flicked the pad back on and continued reading. “Anything else to report?”

“No, sir,” Tarn said. 

Megatron glanced at Tarn. He tapped his finger along the edge of the pad. The air felt as if it were sucked from the room, as Tarn waited for his next response. Megatron looked down at the pad, and hummed. He chuckled, an odd thing, and clicked off his data pad.

Tarn’s Master stood from his chair, and threw the data pad on his seat. “Follow me.”

“Sir,” Tarn said. Confused, and slightly elated, Tarn could do nothing less but to do as he was commanded.

He existed for Megatron’s will, after all.

* * *

Megatron’s Will led to a sizable tent just off from the main camp sites.

Tarn was standing in Megatron’s private quarters. His spark was going to give out on him at this rate. He came for a report. He had been prepared for a report. This was almost more than he could bear. How could Tarn control himself, if it was only himself and Lord Megatron?

“You could have sent a report that short over the radio,” Megatron said. He sat heavily in his seat, and leaned back in a slouch. “I hardly see how you needed to give it in person.”

“I was in the area,” Tarn said, taking in a vent sharply. His Lord was perfection, in mind and body. The way he sat, the crooked smirk that was stretched across his face. The look in his optics. Tarn stood at the ready, not able to hold the attention pose. “It seemed more respectful.”

“I’ve heard about you,” Megatron said. His smile stretched even wider, and his gaze locked Tarn in place. The tank looked down to look Megatron in the face, but it was clear who held the power here. “The one who took the name ‘Tarn’ to terrify those who betrayed me. The fierce, unstoppable leader of the Decepticon Justice Division, who’s power equals that of my Sixth Phase.”

The shuddering in Tarn’s spark chamber could have woken the dead.

“And one other thing, that a certain Communications Officer may have whispered into the side of my helm,” Megatron said. He slid his leg to the side, widening the gap between his thighs. “You worship the ground I walk on.

“It must be driving you mad,” Megatron continued before Tarn could fit in a word edgewise. “From what I understand, you  _live_  to praise me. You waste all of your words, hailing my name and making sure everyone knows what a Mighty Lord and Master I am.

“And yet, here you stand: At attention, with short clipped responses like any other soldier.” Megatron hummed pleasantly, leaning his cheek in the palm of his hand. He slipped the edge of his index finger on the corner of his lip, yet again threatening to throw Tarn’s spark into full arrest. “What a mask you’ve put on for me! Surely that isn’t what you want?”

“No, sir,” Tarn said, venting heavily. He shuttered, licking his lips and grateful for the shield of his face-plate. “It isn’t. However, it does not take a much to realize that my sort of worship, is irritating to you.”

“Yes,” Megatron said, drawing out the word. He leaned on his elbow, and laid his other arm across the rest of the chair. His canon gleamed in the light that flit through the slit of the window. “It is. There is nothing I despise more, than worthless words or praise. It’s a waste of time and breath. However.”

“Sir?” Tarn said, his hands clenching at his sides.

“However,” Megatron repeated, “I do appreciate loyalty. I appreciate those who know me well enough to hold their tongues, and I feel such things should be rewarded.”

Tarn’s T-Cog itched at his side, begging for movement, but he would not. Tarn would hold it together. He had to stay in control. Tarn strained to stay still.

“So, how about a compromise?” Megatron said. He clicked open the plating that concealed the precious ports and wires of his most intimate parts. Tarn ground his teeth into each other, and his optics widened. Megatron smirked. “I’ll let you worship me, on the condition that you do it on your knees, and that you keep that vocalizer of yours turned off.

“Starting now,” Megatron said, calling Tarn to himself with the edge of his index finger. “You have thirty minutes, soldier.”

* * *

Tarn wasn’t sure how he made it back to the ship.

Every inch of him was still on fire from the blessing of touching Megatron’s spark. his very being. Tarn had been truly one with his Lord and Master, in a way that was far more than symbolic.

He could have died in those thirty precious minutes, and never have noticed.

Tarn transformed on his deck, rolling along in a haze. He transformed back, ignoring the ache in his side. Megatron had allowed him to touch him. Tarn transformed again. His treads grinding against the steel corridors of his Peaceful Tyranny. Tarn was on his feet again. 

His Master had allowed Tarn to  _worship_  him.

“Kaon,” Tarn said, approaching the bridge. He took the back of the List Keeper’s seat, and steadied himself. The shaking in his plating had yet to subside.

“Sir?” Kaon asked, a hint of concern in his open sockets. His Pet shifted below, sniffing the air before laying back down. Kaon’s brows knit together. “Are you alright?”

“Find Overlord,” Tarn wheezed. “He is your top priority.”

“Understood,” Kaon answered. He sat up straight, a lick of electricity running across his coils. “I’ll find him for you, make no mistake.”

“I know you will,” Tarn said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m turning in for the night.”

The walk back to his room passed in an equal haze. If Kaon responded to his goodnight wishes, he hadn’t heard it. He couldn’t even remember seeing any of the others on his trek. Step. Transform. Roll. Transform. Step. Transform. Roll. And turn. The scream of his T-Cog, and the ease of his transformations led him back to the room.

Calming him but for the moment.

Tarn entered his room, and ripped off his face plate and visor. He gasped at the air, and breathed, “My Lord. Master Megatron. My Lord. My Lord. Megatron.”

Tarn fell to his knees, and looked at the ceiling. He clutched his hands over his spark, and vented. Every bit of him ached all over again. He could remember the touch. He could remember the energy, and the pain and agony that would never end.

Tarn growled. “My Master, My precious Master. Perfection. My Lord.”

He repeated the words that screamed in his head, begging to be released every second and moment of the torture that was being with his Lord. Words he had been unable to say for fear of losing such a miraculous event.

“Megatron,” Tarn whispered. He excited his own spark with the tone of his voice. The desperation of it, sending it to pulse. “My Lord, my mighty, Lord. Ruler of the universe. Megatron. The most powerful. The amazing. Megatron.”

Tarn covered his mouth with his fingers, and leaned against the door.

Free of his mask, he spoke freely.


End file.
